


A Weeping Moon

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Five Times, Hackle Summer Trope Challenge 2020, Week Two, season four spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25510945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: As Ada still reels from the loss of her sister, she begins to notice Hecate's attempts at dealing with her own grief.
Relationships: Ada Cackle/Hecate Hardbroom, Amelia Cackle | Ada Cackle/Hardbroom
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56
Collections: The Hackle Summer Trope Challenge





	A Weeping Moon

This first time, Ada thinks maybe she dreamt it. The soft, snuffling sound of Hecate crying—no, _weeping_ , deep and small and heavy with grief. But maybe it was her own tears—because when she truly stirs awake, Hecate’s arms are around her, Hecate’s voice low and soothing in the darkness, etched with sleep as well ( _shh, shh, it’s alright, Ada, it’s alright, go back to sleep_ ). The crying sound is gone and Hecate is here, slowly rocking her back to sleep.

The second time, the very next morning, Ada sees signs but has no definite proof. She wakes to find Hecate already out of bed. A few minutes later, Hecate reappears from their bathroom, her entire face the fresh pink shade that implies she’s done her weekly scrubbing treatment. But her skin doesn’t quite glow like it usually does, and when she leans in to kiss Ada’s forehead, she doesn’t smell of lemon juice and honey.

“How did you sleep?” Hecate asks tenderly, letting her fingertips brush through Ada’s hair. She’s so delicate, so careful. As if she still fears shattering Ada again.

Ada thinks of all the times Hecate has been stronger, surer in her touch. The ways she’s pinned Ada to this very mattress and tested her teeth on Ada’s body. The ways she’s grabbed Ada’s hips with full force and not an ounce of fear. Those memories feel like they’re from another life completely, and Ada’s body doesn’t even react the way it used to at such thoughts.

She still feels numb. Almost…cold, except feeling cold would still be _feeling_ something, and she doesn’t.

“Alright, I suppose,” she answers, not sure and not sure how else to express it.

Hecate merely hums, as if she understands anyways.

She does, Ada supposes. Better than most, anyways.

Ada reaches up, holds her wife’s wrist, keeps Hecate’s hand in her hair.

“How did you sleep?” She turns the question back to her.

Hecate takes a small breath as she considers. Then, simply says, “I slept.”

Ada nods. Does this feel stilted? She isn’t sure. She doesn’t feel anything. But conversation between them has always flowed so easily—even the first morning after, things didn’t seem this out of tune.

But maybe it’s just her. Hecate doesn’t seem uncomfortable. She’s still sitting on the bed beside Ada, leaning over slightly, still curling her mouth into a small, soft smile.

She really is a beautiful thing, Ada thinks. Always has been.

She hopes the disconnected feeling goes away. She doesn’t like looking at Hecate and not feeling the familiar tumble of emotion and desire.

Hecate leans in, kisses her forehead again. Ada thinks she should shift her own chin up, kiss that neck currently hovering over her lips. But she doesn’t. Doesn’t have the energy, or the want. Wishes she could worry more over the situation, but doesn’t feel enough to worry over not worrying, either.

“What do you need?” Hecate asks quietly, still keeping her lips just above Ada’s forehead.

Ada doesn’t know. Still, she says, “I just want to sleep, I think.”

Hecate merely hums, kisses her again. “Sleep, then.”

When Ada awakes again, Hecate is gone, but a plate of her favorite pastries and a cup of tea, magicked to stay warm, are resting on the bedside table.

* * *

The third time, Ada finds the door to her wife’s beloved potions lab is locked, and she has to knock. The realization surprises her—it’s been ages since that door hasn’t always opened to her, regardless of whether her wife had barred it against the entry of others.

There’s a light shuffling sound, and when Hecate opens the door, Ada is greeted with red-rimmed eyes and a pink nose.

“Too much pepper in the potion,” Hecate supplies, noting Ada’s gaze. She sniffs again and opens the door wider, a silent invitation.

Ada follows her back into the lab.

Hecate must have cleaned up her first attempt, because the cauldron at her desk is completely empty, completely clean.

Instinctively, Ada’s eyes scan over the meticulously organized rows of ingredients that line her wife’s worn desk.

There isn’t even a grain of pepper, anywhere to be found.

* * *

Hecate hovers, as usual, but she senses when Ada needs more space and finds ways to make herself busy elsewhere.

So the fourth time, Ada finds her in the greenhouse, repotting the spring cuttings that are now fully rooted in summer. Again, her eyes are rimmed red and there’s a light mark of potting soil on her cheek bone, like she wiped her face with the back of her glove.

Wiped away tears.

It’s been two days since term ended. Ada is slowly sinking back into feeling, and all she feels is grief. A raw ache in the chest, sudden surges of emotion triggered by the smallest things, followed by hollowed-out unfeeling, which is more terrifying. She doesn’t like numbness, never has.

Hecate has held her, held on, through it all. With a sudden pang, Ada realizes that she hasn’t really been able to take care of her wife, in turn. She’s been too turned inward, too wrapped up in her own grief.

Logically, she understands why. It’s her sister, her _twin_ , who died, who _chose_ death. But emotionally, the part of her heart that always fears not being enough cries out that she’s abandoning the one person who has always been there, that she’s failing, she’d not being enough for the woman who has been her _exactly enough_ for nearly two decades now.

“Everything alright?” She asks a question that allows Hecate to choose her own level of honesty. _Everything_ could be the plants, could be Hecate, could be everything and anything.

“Splendid,” Hecate answers in that tone that’s tight and clipped, the one she uses when she’s trying to rein in her emotions. She ducks her head and focuses on the plants. The lines on her forehead seem deeper, Ada notes. She looks…drawn. Like she’s being pulled into a black hole inside herself, inwardly collapsing.

 _That’s what happens to all stars, eventually_ , Ada’s mind quietly points out. Granted, Hecate would correct her, say only the largest ones do—but it still holds true, because Hecate has always been both the brightest star in her life’s sky and the inky darkness that held it all together.

She doesn’t like having thoughts like this. Doesn’t like the weight of it. She’s spent her life chasing sunshine and flowers and kindness and hope and joy, always trying to outrun the things that should have pressed her shoulders into the earth. It doesn’t escape her irony that after a lifetime seeking the sunlight, she fell in love with a woman as quiet and dark as the moon.

She shifts a bit closer, coming to stand beside her lovely moon. “Need a hand?”

“Would probably be faster if you used two hands,” Hecate points out dryly, setting a pot in front of her and pulling the pallet of cuttings closer for her to reach.

Ada huffs in amusement. Hecate magicks a set of gardening gloves, dotted with small pink and purple flowers, and gently holds them out in offering. Ada puts them on and gets to work.

She doesn’t ask Hecate about her red-rimmed eyes, or the way she seems to sometimes stop and steel herself. She simply…stays, quietly reminding her wife that she’s here, they’re both here and both safe again. She can’t really attempt witty conversation—or any conversation at all, really—but Hecate doesn’t offer any either. Still, it’s nice. Healing, in a way.

Ada gives all the plants proper names and Hecate smiles at little at that. When they leave the green house, Ada loops her arm through Hecate’s and her wife shifts just a bit closer, grateful for the contact.

It’s not enough, Ada thinks. But it’s a start.

* * *

The fifth time, Ada just senses. There’s an odd tightening in her stomach, a sudden surge of worry, specifically for Hecate. She doesn’t cast a locating spell, because she knows Hecate is spending the morning in the kitchen with her baking. She simply transfers in—to find her wife weeping, whole-body-racking sobs as she crouches on the floor, hands gripping the edge of the large worktable in the center of the kitchen where half-kneaded dough still waits, her head hanging forward as she fights through her own tears to simply breathe.

Now, Ada truly feels—searing pain. She’s on her knees beside Hecate, startling the woman with her sudden appearance—but she’s pulling Hecate into her so quickly that Hecate doesn’t really have time to react beyond her first skittering jump.

She holds her, for a long time. Hecate simply slumps into her and cries, in the kind of loud and sloppy way that makes Ada more than a little scared. She can count on one hand—and have fingers to spare—the times that Hecate has cried like this. With such fearful abandon. With such wholehearted grief.

She realizes that this has affected her wife far deeper than she’d first assumed. Of course, Ada had known that this affected Hecate—but not quite at this level.

Ada merely holds her, strokes the back of her neck and lets her cry. Finally, the sobs slow into longer, softer breaths, light sniffles and almost-hiccups. Hecate finally has the strength to actually lift her arms and return the embrace, nuzzling into Ada’s shoulder gratefully.

The small gesture of gratitude breaks Ada’s heart. Because suddenly she understands—darling Hecate has been trying to be noble and strong for her, again. Has been shelving her own emotions and reactions in an attempt to simply be there to comfort Ada. Has been sacrificing herself for love, as always. Has been too afraid of being a burden, of being too much, of needing too much.

Ada clutches her tighter, turning to kiss the side of her head. Quietly, she says, “I’m here, Hecate. We’re safe.”

She feels the slight tense of Hecate’s muscles. Realizes that isn’t the reason Hecate’s been crying in secret for three days now. Waits for her wife to find the words, to summon the courage to speak.

“It’s not…it’s just…about me.” Hecate sniffles.

“About you how?”

“I don’t…I don’t know how to help you,” she admits softly. Ada’s heart breaks anew. Her wife isn’t crying because she misses Ada’s comfort—but because she fears not being enough comfort to Ada herself.

Then, Hecate gently adds, “I don’t know…how to bring you back.”

Ada feels a small wave of confusion. “I’m already back, Hecate.”

“But…you’re not.” Hecate’s voice is so small, so fearful and aching. “You’re not…here.”

Now Hecate starts making small, skittering sounds again, fighting back more sobs.

Ada’s mind reels as she tries to understand. Hecate holds her tighter. “I’m not—I understand, Ada, except I know that I can’t ever really understand, not truly. And I don’t—I don’t want you to feel as if there’s something wrong—”

“There _is_ something wrong, if you’re sobbing on the floor of the kitchen,” Ada points out, not unkindly.

Hecate shakes her head softly, cheek further rubbing against Ada’s shoulder. “There is nothing wrong in grieving, in…needing to take time, with your loss. I understand that. I understand that things can never simply go back to…before. And that’s alright. But…you told me about feeling disconnected, when you were shattered, and I fear—”

She stops herself, as if she’s said too much. But Ada understands the rest anyway: _I fear you’re still disconnected, I am so terrified that you always will be._

Ada also understands that her wife has berated herself for such thoughts, such worries, such fears, for days now. She’s hidden away her tears and her doubts, trying to manage on her own, to stay strong enough for Ada, to be whatever Ada needs, at the cost of her own needs.

Ada takes a shaky breath, keeping her lips close to Hecate’s temple. “I…have been disconnected, I know. I will—”

“Don’t you dare try.” Hecate stops her. “Not until you’re truly ready. Not for my sake.”

Ada feels again. Feels her heart swelling with soft adoration for her little martyr, always more than willing to set herself on fire to keep Ada warm, always overwhelming in her devotion, always a bit too much, in the most beautiful of ways.

“I am ready,” Ada promises. And maybe she is.

Hecate sits back. Looks at her with cautious, bloodshot eyes.

“I miss you,” she confesses softly. “But—I can wait. I can, Ada. I can do whatever you need me to.”

They’ve survived before. They’ve nearly lost each other before. But this time it’s different, because the usual relief and joy is completely tainted by Agatha’s loss, by grief and mourning. This time, they’re not on the same page, not both back in-step, like before.

Ada simply takes her wife’s face in her hands. “Just…be you. That’s all I need.”

Despite Hecate’s pleas, Ada knows she will absolutely try for her sake. Because she’s worth trying for. Always has been.

She lets her thumbs stroke over Hecate’s cheeks, slow and comforting, as Hecate closes her eyes and tilts further into the touch. Another tear slides down her face. Ada pulls her closer, kisses those closed eyelids.

She rests her forehead against Hecate’s.

 _I miss you_ , Hecate said. And again, Ada understands—because they share everything, and now, Ada doesn’t share anything. Doesn’t talk about her loss, doesn’t share her burden with Hecate, who has never been a fan of Agatha’s, doesn’t open herself completely, not about this. She feels another wave of tears tightening her throat. There does still seem to be a pane of glass between them, and she put it there.

But Ada also realizes that she herself doesn’t know how to talk about it, how to feel, much less how to process the feelings. She hesitates at the idea of pouring more grief into her wife, who has already endured so much in her own life. At forcing Hecate to listen to her mourn a woman that also mistreated her, mistreated them both, to simply bite her tongue as Ada grieves over such a tangled, complicated thing. It isn't that Hecate _can't_ to that—but rather that she shouldn't have to, Ada realizes.

And yet, Hecate misses her. Even if it’s sharing in her sorrow, she misses being her partner, her helpmeet, her wife in all things. Ada thinks of the way Hecate holds her every night, burying in her nose into the nape of Ada’s neck, the soft, deep, grateful inhale she gives before she drifts off to sleep, her arms tightly around Ada. _I miss you_.

It doesn't matter if Hecate should or shouldn't have to endure the weight of Ada's grief and Agatha's loss, Ada suddenly realizes. She _wants_ to. She would actively choose to be a part of Ada's pain, because it is still a part of Ada, a part of the woman she loves, a part of the promise she made all those years ago to weather all of life's storms together.

“I’m sorry,” Ada says thickly.

Hecate shakes her head vehemently. “Don’t apologize. Not for that. Please, Ada. Please don’t apologize.”

Ada closes her eyes, accepts the small forgiveness her wife’s words offer. Still, she pushes forward, “I just…don’t know what to do. How to feel, or how to share it.”

“We could just…talk about it,” Hecate suggests, sitting back with wide eyes, almost eager to simply hear Ada’s voice again.

Ada can’t help the wry smile curling around her lips. “We must be in dire straits, if you’re the one suggesting we talk about our feelings, Hecate Hardbroom.”

Hecate’s laugh surprises them both, sharp and sudden and startlingly loud, devolving into relieved skittering.

Ada finds herself laughing, too. In relief, in delight at the sudden brightness in her wife’s moon-pale face, in the realization that she’s laughing, genuinely _feeling_ deeply enough to actually giggle again. It feels like a victory, a breakthrough mixed with a bit of a breakdown because their eyes are both still watery.

Ada still has her hands cupped around Hecate’s face. She pulls her in for a kiss. Hecate hums and melts further into it, breath hitching with another small hiccup from her crying spell.

The corners of her mouth still taste like tears, but Ada can feel her smiling against her own lips.

 _I have missed you, too_ , Ada thinks. Yes, Hecate has been here the whole time, but not in all the ways that she could be if Ada would let her.

She does want to talk, she realizes.

She pulls away slightly and quietly admits, “I don’t want to talk about what happened. Not yet. I just…want to remember. To remember what she was like, before.”

Hecate nods gently. “We can do that.”

Ada nods as well. Gingerly, they pull each other onto their feet again. Hecate gives Ada the task of kneading the bread ( _grounding activity_ , that’s what Hecate would call it, another thing she has learned in her journey to accept the loss of Indigo, to be a better person and a better teacher, just like she promised at the end of last term) while she bustles around the kitchen, preparing another batch of dough. There's a loaf in the oven, filling the room with a warm, delicious scent.

Ada kneads, and Ada remembers. Remembers snowy Yuletides and sweltering Solstices. Remembers pranks and promises and petty disagreements that are now humorous through the lens of adulthood.

Hecate merely listens. Sometimes humming, just to show she’s still following along, sometimes huffing in wry amusement. Eventually she pulls out the loaf from the oven. Slices it, butters a still-warm piece and hands it to Ada, never interrupting her story.

It’s rosemary. Ada lets the taste blossom on her tongue. She feels…warm. Happy, almost.

 _Comforted_ , she realizes. For the first time, she feels truly comforted. For the first time, she’s allowed herself to crack open and let Hecate pour her love in, to share the pain in a way that lessens it, just a little.

When she kisses Hecate again, she tastes rosemary on her lips as well. Finally, the familiar bubbly feeling returns, and this time, her tears are from joyous relief.

She’s always liked the taste of rosemary. But now it will forever hold a new meaning, a greater depth.

 _I understand that things can never simply go back to before,_ Hecate had said. And she was right. But maybe, in all the loss, there is still gain. Things won’t simply go back to the way they were...but maybe some things can become something better, something stronger. There can be hope in the hurting, flowers that blossom because of the rain, some sense of joy in the grief. There can be all the things she’s spent her life seeking, in richer, deeper detail, if she cracks herself open and wades through the things she’s spent her life avoiding.

Hecate is leaning further in, holding her hips with more certainty. Ada pulls her closer, letting her wife pin her against the work table with hands that don’t seem afraid of shattering her anymore.

Yes. Some things will become stronger, even better than before.


End file.
